About halfway across the kitchen he stopped and muttered, “What the hell?” looking down, confused.
Leslie leaned around him to see Missy attached to the back of his pant leg, chewing at the frayed strings. “Your fan girl missed you.”
Peter reached down and scooped the kitten up with one hand. She was so small and his hand was so large that he cradled her like a baseball. His eyes softened. “Hey, furball.” She was on her back purring like her life depended on it, boneless in complete bliss. Her guy was back.
It was adorable. Without thinking Leslie said, smiling. “She loves you, too.”
Like she’d thrown a bucket of ice on him, Peter went rigid and cold in one breath. He stared at her, his gaze suddenly watchful as he stroked Missy. “That seems to be a theme lately. Is she going to change her mind about it, too?”
The way he said it had irritation welling up in her. “Is that such a terrible thing? I thought you didn’t want to be loved?”
He smiled slightly, cradling the kitten to his chest. She wondered if he even realized what he was doing. “It can be damn inconvenient,” he agreed. The way he looked at her through his lashes made it clear he was baiting her.
It worked, because she didn’t like the thought of her love being an inconvenience to him, regardless of whether she actually did or not.
Her irritation grew teeth. Leslie smacked her forehead, suddenly fuming. “Oh that’s right!” Her voice dripped molasses and sarcasm. “I forgot about Mr. Commitment-Phobe. Can’t handle anything that might require something of you in return.”
Feelings she didn’t even know she had started spewing from somewhere deep inside. “But that’s the funny thing about love. It doesn’t require anything in return. So what’s the deal?”
“Why do you care?” The look he gave her was chilling.
She snapped. “I don’t!”
He didn’t want her love. The truth of it made her a little crazy. She yelled, “I’m not in love with you!”
Pain flashed briefly in Peter’s eyes before he could hide it. But she still saw it and her heart squeezed. “Good. Because I’m not in love with you either.”
The words fell heavy on her ears and she pushed past him hard on her way out of the kitchen. “Get away from me.” Her voice was flat. Whether he’d just said it in retribution or not, it didn’t matter. The words hurt bad.
He let her go. As she walked away he said, “So it’s okay for you to say it, but not me? Why is that, Leslie?”
She spun around, heart weeping, and shouted, “Just leave!” She didn’t wait to see if he listened.
But he damn well better leave Missy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
PETER HAD A pre-op appointment the next day for his eye surgery. Though he didn’t want to see or speak to anybody and was in a foul disposition, he crawled out of bed and took himself to the early morning meeting. The whole time he was there, while he was supposed to be listening to them go over the steps of the procedure, all he could think about was Leslie. The way she’d looked at him when she’d screamed at him to leave. Never before had he seen such emotion come from one single person.
Because of her, he hadn’t slept a wink.
All night he’d tossed and turned, replaying their fight in his mind, wondering if or where he’d gone wrong. And he couldn’t figure it out. She was the one who’d decided to end things.
Christ, love was messy.
It grabbed a hold of a person. Maybe it was better that they’d split. He and Leslie were too independent, too autonomous to let love happen to them. It would kill their sparks. What would the two of them do with something like love?
Parking his FJ Cruiser, he climbed out and went through the garage door into the house. Peter kicked the door closed forcefully behind him. Who the hell was he trying to kid?
The whole ugly frigging truth was that he didn’t want Leslie to be in love with him because he wasn’t worth it. If she loved him he wouldn’t be able to hide his bad side forever and eventually the truth of who he was would eat away at their relationship until nothing remained of something that used to be good.
Until one day she woke up and realized she’d picked the wrong guy.
The house was quiet as a tomb when he entered the kitchen. Leslie wasn’t there anymore. But he could feel her. The woman was everywhere. Wherever he looked, he saw her. She was curled up on the sofa, her tiny furball nestled in her lap. She was standing in his kitchen in a tank top and skimpy panties eating cold leftovers. She was even in his bedroom, staring him down with miserable, wet eyes demanding to know why he hadn’t been able to make love to her.
Leslie had gone from haunting his dreams to haunting his reality. If given a choice, he’d rather it be his dreams. Because in his reality everything in his house smelled like a damn piña colada. Even his stupid towels smelled like coconut.
And it all made him think of her. Made him miss her.
He didn’t want to miss her.
If he missed her then it meant that he cared about her. And caring brought entanglements. Commitments. It meant sticking around somebody for a long, long time—somebody who was going to have expectations, who was going to require things of him. Somebody who was going to see the worst in him.
He didn’t want that somebody to be Leslie.
No, he wanted her to always see the best of him. Peter scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face, suddenly bone tired. What did it matter if she saw his bad side? The life he’d lived had shaped and molded him in a lot of ways. Some good, some not. He damn sure wasn’t perfect. Someday somebody was going to get close enough to see that. Why was he always struggling against the inevitable?
“Probably because you’ve been fighting your whole life and you just don’t fucking know when to stop, idiot.” Sounded about right.
With a sigh, Peter glanced out the French doors to the back patio. It was a gorgeous November day. The sky was clear and the sun was out. Deciding to take in some fresh air, he grabbed a clean gray Rush hoodie from the dryer, put it on, and poured a glass of orange juice.
Peter picked up the glass and as he crossed the kitchen he had a memory flash of Leslie in her flannel pants and sloppy ponytail sitting on the floor while she dangled a string for her kitten, a smile of absolute delight on her gorgeous face. His chest went tight like it was caught in a vice grip. Damn it.
The woman was going to give him a heart attack.
Muttering to himself, Peter pushed through the French doors and stepped out onto the patio. Taking a minute, he surveyed his property—his home. And it struck him that for a guy who claimed to be scared of commitment and responsibility, he sure hadn’t had a problem with either when he’d bought his house.
In fact, it was one of the very few things he relied on as a constant in his life.
A gaggle of geese flew overhead squawking and Peter squinted against the sun, following them across the sky. When they were gone he lowered his gaze and scanned his huge backyard. Clarity started to settle over him.
His house was built for a family. It wasn’t meant for someone alone. That’s probably why he threw so many frigging parties. Because his home was meant to be full.
And he’d bought the large five-bedroom house with its private one-acre lot without hesitation. So what did that tell him about his fear of commitment?
It told him that it was bullshit.
His real fear was letting someone in. Letting someone truly get close to him. For so many years he’d hidden behind his smile—the cocky ballplayer with the fast arm. He’d laughed and joked and pulled one outrageous stunt after another. And the whole time no one saw the real Peter—even himself.